


The Only Life Worth Living

by Fangs_Fawn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Mary's Past, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-09-23 00:52:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9632414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangs_Fawn/pseuds/Fangs_Fawn
Summary: “R” spent most of her life pretending to be someone else. “Mary Morstan” was just one more role…at first. A series of one-shots exploring how Mary came to be Mary. Potential spoilers for all episodes in which Amanda Abbington appears.





	1. Cat Lover

**Author's Note:**

> Just a heads-up…this one is Mary-centric and Mary-sympathetic, so if you don’t like Mary, you might want to give this one a miss. 
> 
> The funny thing is, though I like Amanda Abbington and felt she played the part well, I’m not a huge fan of BBC Sherlock’s interpretation of Mary Morstan myself. Thus, I was surprised when this idea came to me over a year ago – and even more surprised when it refused to leave. Maybe it’s because, like Sherlock, I wanted to like Mary – call me a hopeless romantic, but knowing John’s marriage would, if it followed canon, likely be short and end tragically, I wanted him to have happy memories to look back on. 
> 
> Rather than a chaptered story, this will be a series of canon-compliant one-shots – each based on one of the deductions Sherlock made about Mary on the night he met her in “The Empty Hearse,” and all geared towards understanding the character and what motivates her. I don’t know if I’ll write one for all of Sherlock’s deductions, but I imagine I’ll add to this collection in between working on other fan fiction projects.

John stuck his head around the doorjamb of the nursery. "It's nearly 7:30, Mary. Feel like wrapping it up, maybe having some dinner?"

From her spot in the middle of the sheet-covered floor, Mary turned to look at him with a smile. "Only if your roasted vegetable risotto is on the menu."

John smiled back. "I think that can be arranged. Are you close to a good stopping point?"

"You tell me." Moving carefully in deference to her pregnant body, Mary stepped back into the middle of the room and gestured at the wall with her paintbrush. "What do you think?"

Stepping all the way into the new nursery, John studied the colorful, five-foot high animal she had painted on the wall. He looked a bit puzzled. "That's…nice. That's, er, good. Yeah. Very nice." He glanced uncertainly at her. "It's a…camel?"

Mary frowned. "It's a  _giraffe_. Look at the spots!"

"Of course, yes. I see it now. A giraffe, obviously." Squinting in the glaring light of the naked overhead bulb, John peered again at the painted giraffe (which, in addition to the spots,  _did_  have rather a humped back). "The baby will love it," he added doubtfully.

Mary sighed. She could speak four different languages fluently and get by in three more, field strip an M16 in pitch-dark conditions in under thirty seconds, hit the vein on the first try when drawing blood from a patient, and bake a loaf of honey whole wheat bread that made everyone within range of its heavenly aroma begin salivating, but apparently she was utter rubbish when it came to painting cartoonish animals on nursery walls.

_Perhaps John's right and we should just do the bird stencils, after all._

John slipped an arm around her shoulders. "It's fine, love. Honestly."

" _Love." He called me "love."_

Perhaps it was because her hormones had her emotions very close to the surface these days, but her throat tightened, and she couldn't answer or even look at him for fear of bursting into tears. That word was not cheap with John Watson; she could count on one hand how many times he had actually said "I love you" to her, and he hadn't said it at all since he'd moved back into their home after that whole awful business with Magnussen…and Sherlock.

To hide how moved she was, she cleared her throat and asked instead, "How's that cot coming along?"

John made a face. "I've had an easer time patching together shrapnel-riddled bodies than assembling that bloody thing," he admitted ruefully. "I'm not sure who they got to write the directions, but it can't have been anyone who actually tried putting one together…I think I've got it now, but maybe you'd like to have a look at it yourself later."

Before she could respond, she felt something soft brush against her leg, followed by a light tap on her thigh. Looking down she saw Sadie, her small black-and-white cat, standing on her hind legs and bracing herself against Mary's leg with her right forepaw while reaching up to pat as high as she could reach with her left.

"Precious!" Mary cooed. She started to reach down, but John stopped her.

"No, don't bend." Leaning over himself, he scooped the cat up and deposited her into Mary's arms. "There you go." He smiled a little as Sadie, purring, rubbed her nose on the underside of Mary's chin. They both agreed that Sadie had the loudest purr of any cat either of them had ever heard; John grumbled it could be positively disruptive when they were watching telly.

John did not dislike cats, but he was more of a dog person himself. (He had a particular soft spot for bulldogs, which Mary thought were awful). He liked Sadie, though (a good thing, since Mary's pregnancy had, by necessity, relegated him to litter pan duty.) To Mary's relief, Sadie liked John, too. Despite her funny, outgoing, and engaging personality, the little cat had  _not_  liked David, which Mary had chalked up to Sadie having had Mary all to herself for so long before David came along. But perhaps not, for the small cat had taken to John straight away. She would always be Mary's cat, but something about John pleased her.

Mary was glad. She only hoped Sadie would take to the baby, as well.

Giving Sadie's ears an absent-minded scratch, John glanced at the darkened window. "Have you looked out? I think we may have had an inch already."

"Not yet," Mary replied, stepping over to the window. She peered through the pane – in the pale light from the lamppost she could see the road and pavement coated with a light, fluffy white blanket, while more snow drifted thickly down. The street was unusually quiet in the wake of the predicted snowfall. "I'm glad we don't need to go anywhere."

"Me too." Surprising her with a quick kiss on the back of her neck, John gave her shoulders a brief squeeze from behind, then left the room abruptly. "You wash up – I'll get dinner started," he called over his shoulder as he disappeared along the hall.

Mary smiled tenderly; John had been very solicitous of her since he'd moved back in just after Christmas, as though making up for lost time. Giving Sadie a quick kiss on the top of her soft head, she carefully set the cat down and began gathering up her paint materials.

They had left preparing the nursery a bit late – she was only six weeks out from her due date – but she had not had the heart for working on it during the endless weeks of their estrangement, when John had been staying at Baker Street with Sherlock and she had mostly been on her own. It was now ten days since Sherlock's aborted exile; the nameless threat behind Moriarty's video was, as yet, still nameless, and their lives were in a holding pattern. Working on the nursery gave John and Mary something to focus on while they waited for what came next – and gave them a chance to get to know one another again, as well.

It hadn't been easy. They had been so uncertain of one another at first that they were like two strangers sharing the house, painfully polite to each another as well as wary. John was a bit distant, and had periods of laconic moodiness. Mary was guiltily defensive, and fearful of being rejected. But assembling the nursery together, with the promise of the future that simple act symbolized, had, along with Sherlock's sudden flurry of cases, done much to ease the tension and divert their minds from the late Moriarty's looming threat. This predicted snow promised to have them both homebound for the weekend, so Mary was glad that things had improved…she was looking forward to a peaceful, cozy time with no interruptions.

As long as the baby didn't decide to arrive early and Sherlock didn't burst in with news of the case (or any case), she didn't see what could possibly happen to prevent that.

* * *

Half an hour later, having changed her paint-stained clothes and washed up, she joined John in the kitchen. He already had a pan simmering on the stove and was slicing vegetables on a cutting board on the worktop.

"Mmm, smells lovely."

John glanced up, then paused. His quick smile faded as he looked past her. "What's wrong with Sadie then?"

Mary turned. Sadie, who had been following after her as usual, was now lying on her side in the kitchen doorway with her head up. At first glance she seemed fine to Mary, even if it was an odd spot for her to lie down.

"What do you mean?"

John laid the knife down slowly. "Her hind legs sort of…sank down under her, quite suddenly."

Mary's brow furrowed. There was a funny niggling feeling in the pit of her stomach. "She looks all right to me."

Only now that Mary looked closer, she didn't – Sadie was quiet and still, her head still up as though she were just lounging on her side as cats do, but she wasn't purring (unusual) or watching them with unfailing interest (even more unusual). Her gaze seemed to be turned inward in a rather preoccupied way.

A creeping sense of foreboding stole over Mary, like a spider crawling up the back of her neck. Before John could stop her, she hunkered down carefully, mindful of her rounded belly, and extended her fingers towards the cat, rubbing the tips together.

"Psh-psh-psh! Come, Sadie!"

The cat didn't move. She didn't look at Mary, either. She seemed as consternated by this development as Mary and John.

Mary swallowed. "I'm ringing the vet's."

"It's after hours, Mary." John, having turned the gas off under the pan and put a lid over it, was beside her. He took her elbow and helped her to her feet, then reached down and carefully scooped the cat up. Sadie held herself stiffly in his arms. "They probably closed early anyway, because of the snow. Let's just settle her in her basket and keep an eye on her. Tomorrow we can–"

"I'm calling  _now_ ," Mary interrupted him sharply, reaching for her mobile.

John was right, of course – the vet's was shut up for the weekend, but there was a message with a number for an emergency veterinary surgery that was open twenty-four hours. To Mary's enormous relief, the snow hadn't caused them to close.

The intake nurse listened as Mary described Sadie's symptoms. Then, after a short but noticeably pregnant pause, she said, "You'll want to bring her in right away." She gave Mary directions to a location a few miles away.

Mary rang off. "They want us to bring her in."

John was aghast. "Mary, it's near-whiteout conditions out there."

"I'll take her. You can stay home if you like."

He sighed. " _I'll_ take her. You'd better stay here and–"

"I'm coming." Her tone left no room for argument.

* * *

The events of that dreadful evening remained blurry in her mind afterwards, but a few stood out: the harrowing drive through the heavy, wet snow, with her in the backseat trying to soothe Sadie in her carrier while John cautiously inched along in the lowest gear, unable to keep from sliding a bit through every curve. The staff at the veterinary's hurrying out to meet them and snatching Sadie away to an examination room. The worried look on the intake nurse's face as she took in Mary's condition while she settled John with some paperwork to fill out and gave Mary a cup of tea. And then the vet himself, sympathetic but blunt while explaining his diagnosis and giving them his recommendation:  _"…kindest thing, truly, Mrs. Watson…she'd thank you for it, believe me…"_

They let Mary hold her while they administered the injection. John held them both while Mary whispered into the little cat's ear as the sedative took hold.

It was over in seconds.

* * *

She wept bitterly all the way home.

Forced to maintain a snail's pace in the heavy downfall, John did not dare to take his eyes from the road or his hands from the wheel while the car was in motion. During brief stops, he would shoot her a concerned look from the corner of his eye and let go the steering wheel with one hand just long enough to give whatever part of her he could reach a brief, awkward pat before carefully reapplying pressure to the accelerator.

He had never seen her in such a state, and under different circumstances she might have found his alarmed expression sweetly, comically endearing. Probably he thought her surging hormones, combined with the stress, fear and tension of the past months, were exacerbating her distress.

She wondered what he would think if she were to tell him that, if she hadn't decided to adopt a stray cat, they probably wouldn't be married, or fast approaching the birth of their child. Would he be grateful to the little cat, or would he think it crossing her path had ultimately spelled bad luck for him?

* * *

Three years before she met John Watson, Mary returned to her block of flats one night after work to find a starving cat half-in, half-out of the rubbish bin at the side of the building.

She knew this cat by sight. The people upstairs had owned it – Mary had seen it sunning itself in their window. It was a small, dainty, black-and-white female with a harlequin-patterned body, box-shaped little face, and rather long tail. When it heard Mary coming, it dropped to the icy pavement and skittered behind the bin, pausing to peer out with huge, cautious green eyes. When she paused without coming closer, it gave a plaintive, hopeful mew, having evidently caught a whiff of the of the sausage roll she had picked up at Greggs.

Mary stared at it. Her neighbors upstairs had moved away ten days ago. They must have deliberately left the cat behind.

 _Not my problem_.

But for some reason, her legs seemed frozen in place.

She had been living in London for over a year, working at the surgery for eight months. At that time her co-workers, if asked, would have described her as "highly competent, but stand-offish and a bit of a bitch."

That was all right. Mary (as she was now calling herself) had no intention of cultivating anything other than the most professional of working relationships. She had come to this country seeking  _refuge_  – not connections. She knew from bitter experience that to form attachments was to become vulnerable. Her entire present was a lie, and though she was very, very good at lying, close relationships meant more ways to draw attention, more opportunities for slipping up, more situations in which she needed to keep track of all the tales she had to spin in order to protect herself.

Besides…she was dangerous. She hurt people. She was brilliant and skilled and attractive and people were drawn to her. But she was a flaming torch that would burn anyone who got too close, whether she meant to or not.

It was better for herself and everyone around her that she be alone.

A damp, raw wind cut across her cheek like a knife. Shivering, Mary drew her coat more tightly round herself as she studied the small cat. Her feet were killing her from being on them all day, and her facial muscles ached from constant, forced smiling at recalcitrant patients. She wanted nothing more than to go upstairs, make a pot of tea, and put her feet up for a bit.

Instead, she hunkered down on the pavement, shifted the paper bakery bag to her left arm, and extended her right in a coaxing manner.

The lonely, hungry little thing didn't wait to be asked twice. It trotted to her eagerly, mewing as it came, and circled round her with its tail up, purring happily. After a moment's hesitation, she picked it up. Immediately it rubbed its forehead against her chin, eyes closed in apparent bliss. It seemed even hungrier for attention than it was for food.

She could have snapped its neck like a twig before it even knew what happened – she knew just how to do it. Its easy trust made her throat close up.

It didn't struggle at all when she tucked it inside her coat and carried it up to her small flat. There, she gave it some water and part of her sausage roll. Then she set up a litter pan for it in the bathroom, and spread an old blanket over the end of the sofa. She did not object, however, when, a few hours later, the cat rejected the latter and settled itself on the on the foot of her bed instead.

As its ridiculously loud purr soothed her to sleep, Mary promised herself half-heartedly that she would find a new home for it as quickly as possible.

By the end of the week the cat was wearing a collar with an identification tag that read: "My name is Sadie. If found, please call Mary M.," followed by Mary's phone number.

* * *

It was that hopeful mew that had lured her in. The sound was so  _lonely_  – and it made Mary aware, perhaps for the first time in her adult life, that she herself was supremely lonely. After spending her misguided youth walking a knife's edge, she had come to this city exhausted in mind, body and spirit. What had once seemed exciting and adventurous now felt burdensome, plaguing, and wasteful. She was in her thirties, but she already had an ocean's worth of blood on her hands and a small fortune on her head. All she had wanted was to rest, and she had never imagined a time when that wouldn't be enough. She had never guessed her life would begin to feel so empty, so soon.

The cat was lonely. Mary was lonely. She could not form relationships with other people, but surely there was no harm in forming one with a single, good-natured, harmless little cat?

* * *

One morning, almost a year after Sadie had come to live with her, Mary arrived at work in a supremely radiant mood. It was an exceptionally beautiful autumn morning, the sun was shining, the queue at her favorite coffee shop had been short, and they had even had some of the lemon tarts left that she loved so much.

"Good morning, Mary," the pretty young receptionist greeted her dutifully as Mary breezed past.

"Good morning, Imogen," Mary replied cheerfully with a huge smile. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

She did not pause on her way into the main office. If she had, she would have seen Imogen's jaw drop.

 _Imagine…that cold, unfriendly Mary Morstan had actually returned her morning greeting with something other than a curt nod. She had actually_ smiled _at her – she had even addressed Imogen by her_ name _!_

Imogen couldn't  _wait_  to tell Cath.

* * *

The cat had begun to soften her.

Without noticing it happening, Mary grew used to hearing, and even to enjoy, the sound of her own voice in casual conversation, for she found herself talking to Sadie more and more when she was at home. Sadie gave her something to hold, scold, cuddle, and cajole. Sadie was always happy to see her. She would call down from the window when she saw Mary coming up the street, greet Mary at the door, and lie in her lap while she watched telly. Sadie would cadge for treats off Mary's plate and sit on the vanity, purring, while Mary got ready for work in the morning.

Perched on the foot of Mary's bed, Sadie kept the nightmares at bay. With the improved sleep, the depression Mary hadn't realized was consuming her began to relax its choking grip. The small flat no longer seemed so cold, lonely and empty…Mary began to look forward to coming home. She loved having someone to come home  _to_  – someone who depended on her and trusted her utterly.

Sadie was never horrified when Mary whispered tales of her past life into her ear in the middle of the night. She only purred as she listened, and occasionally nudged Mary's hand reassuringly.

* * *

Now, years later, she and John were in bed – but there was no little cat curled up at their feet.

Mary waited until she heard John's breathing change before she opened her eyes. He had drifted off with his arm thrown comfortingly over her, but, ever the soldier, he preferred to face the door, and when he unconsciously turned over in his sleep she turned with him so that she ended lying on her side, facing his back.

Keeping her own breath light so she could gauge his, she waited until she was sure he was deeply asleep before she reached out towards him, carefully and lightly pressing her hands to his shoulder blades. He was a restless sleeper – particularly when distressed in mind – and her touch must be feather-light lest she wake him.

Her caution paid off – he never stirred.

With a soft sigh, she closed her eyes and arched her neck until her forehead rested against the nape of his neck. As always, his comforting scent relaxed her – her heartbeat slowed and her hitching breath evened out. Within her, the baby, having been agitated by her mother's earlier distress, now began to settle as though she, too, found solace in her father's nearness.

Mary had pretended to fall asleep herself, knowing John would not allow himself to do so while she was awake and tearful. But she wanted him to sleep so that she could be free to rejoice in his solid strength beside her in a way she was too shy to do when he was awake and aware, unwilling to overwhelm him with the intensity of her love.

She breathed deeply, slowly, filling herself down to her toes with his wonderful, reassuring scent…a clean, masculine concoction made up of disinfectant soap from the surgery, a hint of aftershave, laundry detergent from his t-shirt, a touch of gun oil, and his own warm skin.

John always wore a t-shirt to bed – long-sleeved in the cooler months, short-sleeved in the warmer ones, declaring jokingly that his internal thermostat had never quite readjusted to England's temperate climate after his years in the Middle East. Mary knew he also was a little shy even now of the scars that marred the otherwise smooth skin of his shoulder. Carefully splaying the fingers of her left hand over his scapula, she could feel beneath the fabric the ridges marking where the entry wound had been.

She remembered the first time she had seen his scars. He had paused while removing his vest, hesitating, then said, slowly, "It's not…well, it's not pretty." Flushing slightly, he had tried to cover his embarrassment by making a joke. "Some scars are sexy, I suppose, but just my luck, this one's butters–"

He broke off when she leaned in and gently pulled the shirt away from him. His breath caught when she pressed her lips to the gnarled flesh over his collarbone, and he flinched and closed his eyes. His muscles quivered slightly – she could  _feel_  him forcing himself to hold still, to not to give in to his instinct to withdraw and hide his vulnerability. She could sense his churning emotions, the way he was willing himself to trust her. He was like some wild creature, wary of approach, but it wasn't physical pain that caused him to recoil – she doubted there was any sensation left in the ruined skin; he might not have been aware of her feather-light touch at all had he not seen her do it.

She understood better than he that the scars on his body were, for him, symbolic of the scars on his heart – a heart that had been betrayed and wounded too many times, leaving its owner reluctant to expose it. The thought of his deep suffering – the emotional  _and_  the physical, represented in his marred flesh – made her eyes fill and her heart twist with fear…and guilt. She was betraying him right now, and were he to find out he would be hurt again, grievously. Blinking back her tears, she had raised her lips to his, vowing silently that she would  _never_  hurt him – she needed him too much.

But of course she  _did_  hurt him, and she knew herself too well to think she wouldn't do it again.

In her more defensive, less generous moments, she blamed Sadie for giving her the courage to love. Sadie had been the first chink in her carefully wrought armor, the horseshoe nail* – the first domino of Mary's long-practiced caution to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * “For want of a nail the shoe was lost. For want of a shoe the horse was lost. For want of a horse the rider was lost. For want of a rider the battle was lost. For want of a battle the kingdom was lost. And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.”  
> –Benjamin Franklin


	2. Bakes Own Bread

> "I am Beloved and she is mine." –From  _Beloved_ , by Toni Morrison

* * *

She spent most of the night sorrowing quietly for her pet, her face pressed against John's shoulder, not dropping off until just before dawn.

When a muffled, scraping sound pulled her out of a heavy, uneasy sleep some hours later, the room was filled with sunlight and John's side of the bed was empty and cold. For one wrenching moment she feared his Christmas Day return had been a dream, then she heard it again: a sound like metal being lightly dragged over pavement, coming from outside.

Mindful of her new center of gravity, Mary squirmed onto her side, swung her legs to the floor, and used her arms to push herself into a sitting position. Pulling on her slippers, she carefully got to her feet and tried to keep from waddling as she walked over to the window, grabbing her dressing gown off the back of the rocking chair on the way.

On the street below, John was using a garden spade to clear the snow from the pavement in front of their home. (The spade wasn't a tool best suited to this task, but it was so seldom that they actually  _needed_  a proper snow shovel that they never remembered they hadn't got one until they did.) Glancing up at a brilliant blue sky dotted with white clouds, Mary wondered why he was bothering. The storm system had passed; what little snow was left was wet and heavy, with slushy imprints left on the road by the few cars brave enough to have ventured out. She guessed that, between the bright sunshine and the rapidly rising temperature, there would be little left of last night's accumulation by late afternoon.

Likely he was doing it for the exercise. It was too sloppy to run or bike, and John liked to have  _some_  outlet for his restless energy. Mary envied his enjoyment of exercise – she didn't  _dislike_  working out, exactly, but her chief motivation for doing it was because she liked the way it made her look and feel, not because she got any enjoyment out of the activity for its own sake.

She lingered at the window for a moment, just watching her husband. Warmed by the exercise, John had laid aside his coat despite the damp chill, and she admired the way his lean back muscles slid and rippled beneath his olive green Polartec shirt. He worked methodically, moving with the easy grace of a small lion confident of his strength, smooth and precise in his movements. He was wearing heavy work gloves to protect his hands from the rough, wooden shaft of the spade, and a cap and scarf Mrs. Hudson had knitted for him the Christmas before last. The cap was pulled down low over his ears, and she could almost see the steam rising from his torso, to which his shirt, slightly damp with sweat, clung like a second skin. The seven pounds he had put on in the first months of their marriage had vanished along with seven more over the course of their estrangement, and she realized with a pang that she could almost count his ribs through the garment.

 _He's warm now from the exercise, but he'll cool down fast once he stops_ , she thought. Wrapping her dressing gown around her expanding middle as well as she could, she headed down to the kitchen to put coffee on.

* * *

The pot had just finished percolating when John came through the kitchen door, flushed and stamping.

"Mm, coffee," he said with pleasure, sniffing the air.

"You'll have to pour your own, I'm afraid," Mary said indicating her hands, which were sticky with the bread dough she had been kneading on the worktop.

"S'alright. Thanks for making it; I know you've been missing it yourself." John gave her his patented there-and-gone half-smile as he went to the sink to wash his hands before pouring a mugful of the dark, strong liquid. He added milk; then, still stirring, leaned in to brush her cheek lightly with his lips. She immediately turned to put her arms round him, holding her doughy hands away, but he leaned backwards out of her reach.

"Don't want to get you all sweaty." He shot her a concerned look. "All right?"

She managed a rather watery smile. "No. But I will be."

From the corner of her eye, she could see the bit of tiled floor where Sadie's food and water bowls had been. John must have put them away when he came down so the sight of them wouldn't upset her. She wasn't sure if having them gone made her feel better or worse.

Swallowing hard, she changed the subject.

"You'd better go shower; you don't want to get chilled."

He studied her a moment, giving her what she privately thought of as his "diagnostic look." He nodded slowly.

"Right. I won't be long." He gave her arm a squeeze before leaving the kitchen, taking his mug with him.

Hearing his footsteps on the stairs, she suddenly remembered a morning last spring when he had just returned from a five-mile run, dripping wet and still blowing slightly as he entered the kitchen in his running gear. She had made coffee that morning, too.

"Ergh…you stink," she had announced, grimacing, as he drew near. "Keep away from me until you've showered!"

He had stared at her as he raised an arm to wipe the matted hair off his forehead. Suddenly a wicked gleam came into his eye; before she could figure out what it meant he had snatched her up in a bear hug and rubbed his sweaty face against her freshly showered hair and neck, pressing his dripping body against hers. He kissed her hard on the mouth, cutting off her indignant shriek, then ducked away and sprinted for the stairs when she raised her hand to smack him.

"Come back here, you coward!" she cried, glaring after him.

"Can't stop, got to shower," he called back cheerfully.

"What about  _me_?" she demanded, disgustedly motioning to her now sweat-damp clothes.

Part of her wanted to clock him, but another part was finding it very difficult to keep from laughing.

He had paused halfway up the stairs and leered at her suggestively. "You're welcome to join me."

She did.

She loved that memory. (It had all been utterly revolting, of course, and she warned him that she'd suture his hands over his ears if he ever tried anything like that again, but secretly she had been pleased.) With the approach of their wedding, the return of Sherlock Holmes, and the mending of his friendship with the man, John's seldom-seen lighthearted, playful side began coming to the surface more often. It was a delight to see.

Then came Magnusson, and the thing with Sherlock, and the doctor's old, brooding wariness had returned in full.

Mary heard the water running upstairs, indicating that John was now in the shower. She wondered what would happen if she were to go up and join him – would she be welcome? They had reconciled, but he still wasn't the relaxed, easygoing John he had become last summer – he had gone back to the guarded version of himself he had been when they first met.

For a moment she considered it, then told herself the small shower wouldn't accommodate John, her,  _and_  the baby, and returned to the mound of bread dough on the worktop.

 _Nothing fancy this time_ , she thought, pushing the thought of everything but the dough out of her mind.  _No complicated swirls, tasty toppings or redeeming whole grains. Just a comforting, classic white loaf, the kind that tastes like a slice of heaven when slathered with plenty of fresh butter and jam and paired with piping hot, milky tea._

Despite the painful absence of Sadie's soft, furry body brushing against her calves as she worked, the familiar task soothed her. She remembered that the first yeast loaf she had ever made had been a classic white.

* * *

The Saturday afternoon after she had nearly given Imogen from work a heart attack just by smiling at her, Mary Morstan went for a run.

She made a point of running a minimum of three mornings during the work week, and she had missed Friday's by oversleeping. She told herself she was too tired to do it when she got home; that left Saturday. If it had been cold and rainy she might have bottled out altogether, but the glorious, golden autumn weather had continued into the weekend, and she could think of no other excuse to put it off.  _Bugger._

She rolled out of bed, stretched and hydrated, then reached resentfully for her running shoes. For once she brushed Sadie off as she headed out the door, irrationally jealous of her little indoor kitty's naturally lithe figure.

She _doesn't need to run miles and miles to stay slim, and even if she_ did _gain a bit, it would only make her look cuter. Bloody animals._

The exercise improved her mood as it always did – three miles later and the lovely weather, release of endorphins, and satisfaction of a task well done had induced a satisfied buzz that lasted through her half-mile cooling-down walk.

That is, it lasted until she passed the bakery just around the corner from her block of flats.

She paused on the pavement outside the building, glaring through the large window where a plump, rosy woman with grey braids crisscrossed over the top of her head was putting out a tray of fresh-baked loaves. Their heavenly aroma reached Mary even through the plated glass, making her mouth water and igniting a sullen resentment that made her fantasize about going back to the flat and seeing if she had the materials on hand to whip up a Molotov cocktail. She imagined herself throwing it through the window after nightfall when the place was closed, burning it to the ground so that it could never again tempt her or anyone else with delectable, traitorous carbohydrates. Surely that would be a boon to humanity?

This.  _This_  was the bloody problem – the reason she had to run miles and bloody  _miles_  every week in order to maintain her size twelve figure. That horrible Cath at work loved safe, slimming salads like children love candy and ate them nonstop, but fresh bread had always been Mary's Achilles' heel – her Kryptonite.

Not for the first time, it occurred to her that she had been an idiot to move into a flat mere steps away from a bakery.

As the baker straightened up, she glanced through the window. Spotting Mary, she offered her a cheerful smile and friendly wave, as if to a good friend.

 _Naturally – I keep her in business,_ Mary thought sourly. She offered a dutiful smile in return before turning away resolutely. With grim determination she stalked off in the direction of her flat, resolved to avoid the bakery on this day, at least.

Her resolve was wavering before she even hit the shower.

* * *

Barely thirty minutes later, the shop bell chimed blithely as Mary, hair still damp from her shower, pushed open the bakery door. She grinned sheepishly as the grey-haired woman exclaimed happily upon seeing her, "Ah! I thought I should have had you back before the closing time…you cannot resist the classic white loaf, yes?"

It was the longest sentence Mary had ever heard her say – though she knew this woman well by sight, she never lingered, and they rarely exchanged words beyond a simple, "hallo." Now, Mary discerned the barest trace of an accent.

 _Polish,_  she thought,  _but she's lived in this country so long her accent is nearly perfect. Some people might guess from her syntax that she's not from here, but I bet I'm one of the few who could guess her country of origin._

Aloud Mary said, smiling, "How do you know that?"

"It is the one you choose the most often," the baker declared cheerfully as she reached behind the glass case to extract a loaf. "You are also quite partial to the rosemary and olive oil, I think, and occasionally to the oat and honey. But always,  _always,_  you come back to the white, your favorite – especially on the brisk days."

Mary's smile faltered. She felt alarmed by the baker's keen observations. She was adept at fading into the background – her life had often depended on her ability to do so – yet this woman noticed her. Among who knows how many customers that entered this shop every day, this woman had noticed  _Mary_. Mary's eyes grew cool as she studied the baker warily.  _Just who the hell_ is _she?_

But her scrutiny revealed nothing to alert her keen instinct for spotting danger – only an elderly woman who had been a baker all her life, with lively grey-green eyes, the beginning of arthritis in her hands and wrists, and a warm smile.

 _It's you, Mary, who's grown careless,_  she mentally scolded herself. She had not stayed in one place so long in years, and she knew better than to frequent the same shops, regardless. Before Sadie had come to live with her she had made a point of patronizing different establishments for what she needed, but having a reason to go home made her keener to choose the stores closest to her own block of flats. Besides, she loved this bakery. It was warm and full of good smells, and had an authentic, old-fashioned charm the newer bakeries lacked.

"Is always nice to see someone who truly appreciates good bread," the baker said proudly as she handed Mary her change along with the white loaf, now wrapped up. "I  _like_  to see you come in." She rested a hand lightly on her chest. "I am Anja."

Mary hesitated before answering. "Mary."

Anja's smile grew broader. "Marya! A beautiful name. It was my mother's." She extended her left arm to give Mary her change.

Her own smile growing, Mary reached to take it. "Anja. It's very nice to–" she began, then, glancing down, broke off with a quiet gasp when spotted them – a faint line of blurred, blue numbers tattooed on the inside of Anja's forearm."

Anja looked puzzled a moment, then understanding flashed into her eyes when she followed Mary's gaze. Calmly, she flipped her arm over to drop the change into her customer's frozen palm before discreetly pulling her sleeve down over the tattoo. "You have baked bread yourself, Marya?" She asked in the tone of one who is trying tactfully to turn a subject.

Flushing, Mary dragged her eyes away from the woman's arm. "Me? Oh. Oh, no…no, I can't cook, really." It was something she'd never really had the time to learn.

"Baking and cooking are two different things," Anja said firmly, coming out from behind the counter. "Baking  _bread_  takes patience. You have patience, I think. I am sure you would find it very satisfying."

"Oh, I don't know…"

Anja gave Mary's arm a warm squeeze as she saw her to the door. "You must to come by some evening, a Friday evening perhaps. I show you."

Bemused, Mary lingered a moment on the pavement as Anja locked the door to the bakery behind her and turned the sign in the window to "Closed." Then, shaking her head slightly, she returned to her flat and Sadie to enjoy her fresh, still-warm bread.

* * *

She told herself she had no intention of doing any such thing – of  _course_  she didn't, she had better sense than  _that_  – but she did go to the bakery late the next Friday afternoon. Just to get another loaf of bread, of course, not to take Anja up on her offer. No, it had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that Anja was warm and welcoming, that she reminded Mary of her grandmother (the only family member she could remember, whom she had lost at the age of four), or the unspoken realization that Anja, too, apparently had a violent, unsettled past she didn't care to speak of.

When the delighted baker invited her back to see the kitchen, Mary told herself that it would be impolite, not to mention unkind, not to at least take a look now she was here. Anja was very proud to show Mary her kitchen and all its treasures, and Mary couldn't help admiring how neat and orderly it all was – much more so than she had expected.

"There's a certain… _aesthetic_  to baking the bread," Anja declared. "Everything must to be  _so_  clean and nice."

She insisted on walking Mary through her first loaf of bread – a quick bread made with flour and milk and eggs and salt, using bicarbonate as a rising agent instead of yeast, and olive oil and a variety of herbs for flavoring. Watching her work, Mary marveled at how ridiculously easy it was – really, you just whipped the ingredients together and kneaded them a bit before dumping them in a loaf pan and popping it all into the oven. Less than an hour later, out came a fragrant, moist and crumbly loaf that paired beautifully with the salad and soup Anja had ready.

Mary couldn't wait to try the recipe Anja gave her at home, but to her dismay, what felt like a brick dropped heavily out of her overturned pan. It was still wet on the inside, but a bit too brown on top – nothing at all like Anja's perfect loaf.

When she brought it to Anja the next day to find out what had gone wrong, the older woman shook her head.

"You handled the dough too much, Marya," she said sagely. "Did I not to warn you? Some loaves need a light touch only. Like many things in this life, you do not want to try to control it too much."

Thus began a treasured if unlikely friendship, and a hobby that became Mary's private passion.

* * *

When Mary set her mind to learning something, she  _learned_  it, and under Anja's direction she soon turned out her first yeast loaf. The satisfaction she felt when the unappetizing-looking mixture of yeast, salt, water and flour she had left to rise overnight in Anja's kitchen came out of the oven as a loaf of real, actual bread, was like nothing she had ever experienced.

Admittedly, it was not very  _good_  bread (it tasted a bit bitter; Anja said she must have put too much yeast in), but Mary was ridiculously pleased with herself nonetheless. She couldn't wait to try again, and under Anja's watchful eye and expert tutelage it wasn't long before she produced a perfect white loaf.

From then on, there was no stopping her: baguettes followed cinnamon-raisin loaves followed challah. She learned about using lecithin granules, millet, oats and honey. She learned to make wonderfully sour and stiff  _pain Poilâne_ -style loaves, sweet and savory bagels, and buttery croissants. She learned to make eggy brioches, cinnamon babka and  _pain au chocolat_. But her personal favorite was the classic white.

As she punched down dough with Anja, Mary couldn't help asking herself what the hell was she doing? London teemed with excellent bakeries; baking bread certainly was not a skill she  _needed_  to learn.

Perhaps it was the science behind it (there really was a lot of chemistry involved in baking bread), or maybe it appealed to her innate ability to watch and wait. Or it could have been the fact that baking bread was the first thing she had ever undertaken to learn for herself alone. Regardless, Mary found it a soothing, comforting task. Working side-by-side with Anja, breathing in the intoxicating aromas of rising dough and fresh-baked bread, listening to the comforting background hum of the mixer and dough hook turning and the radio turned to a BBC7 drama, she enjoyed a sense of security she had not experienced since her early childhood.

* * *

Her training agent had warned her about making connections. Adopting the stray cat had seemed safe enough, but the softening that had begun with Sadie had created a change in Mary that the discerning baker had noticed – a change that made the elder woman begin to feel fond of and rather protective towards the lonely younger woman, finally prompting her to reach out.

Anja was the first person Mary formed a connection with in her adult life that had nothing whatever to do with her prior profession. The connection made her uneasy at first, but she soon relaxed. Anja was restful to be with. She never asked Mary why she was apparently alone in the world, just as Mary never asked her about the tattoo. Their conversations were light and their silences companionable. The time they spent together was somehow healing for both of them, and Mary could see no possible harm in it.

* * *

In her zeal for her new hobby, she soon outstripped her own and Sadie's ability to eat her home-baked creations before they went stale.

Not being a wasteful person, Mary began to bring them to work to give to patients: quick breads, yeast breads, rolls and muffins, savory and sweet. Her patients were delighted with her, and the pleasure with which they received her edible gifts warmed her in an unexpected way. One of her older female patients thanked her in Arabic, calling her  _malak_ , and she loved the idea of being an angel instead of a villain for once.

She almost risked making a  _faux pas_  one day when one of her regulars–kind, elderly Mr. Kirke – came in for his three-month's checkup. She had been about to present him with a raspberry-vanilla swirled brioche when he told her proudly that he'd been gluten-free since his last appointment.

She left the loaf hidden under her coat and, with unusual demonstrativeness, kissed his grizzled cheek instead. (He seemed to like that just as well.)

At the staff meeting later that afternoon, her co-workers were astounded when Mary Morstan set out a home-baked sweet loaf and invited them to help themselves. They were so pleased, in fact, that she was pleased in return, and resolved to bring more of her baked treats to share with them.

* * *

One Sunday evening, just as Mary was putting an olive oil rosemary loaf into the oven so it would be ready for her to bring to the Monday morning staff meeting, she had an epiphany:

_I enjoy baking. Especially bread._

She had opened the window a bit to let in the spring air. Sadie was sitting erect with her tail curled daintily round her front paws on the sill, her back to the fire escape as she watched her mistress with great interest. The radio was on, and Mary had been humming along with it as she worked.

For a moment, she just stood there in her tiny galley kitchen, in her ridiculous fuzzy pink slippers and the stupid red apron with "I LIKE BIG BUNS AND I CANNOT LIE!" printed across the chest in screaming white letters. Trying to retrace her actions in an attempt to identify the source of the extraordinary, unbidden thought, she glanced down and noticed streaks of flour across her stomach from where she had wiped her hands just before grabbing the handle of the oven door.

It was the apron that had inspired the thought, then – that silly apron.

It had been Christmas a gift from Janine, Dr. Clarkson's assistant. Janine had drawn Mary's name in the Secret Santa last December. Everyone had laughed at the apron when Mary opened the package, including Mary herself, but the thing had pleased her somehow. Trying to think why, she had finally decided it was because it was  _useful_. In the years prior, Mary usually got something like hand cream or a scented candle, dutiful gifts from little-known co-workers who had been disappointed to draw her name and hadn't the faintest idea what to give her. But this apron – Mary could  _use_  this. In fact, she  _needed_  one – Anja always lent her one of hers when Mary was at the bakery, but at home she usually just tucked a tea towel into her jeans or collar to protect her clothing while she baked.

Now, closing the oven door and slowly stepping backwards, Mary stared down at her apron, marveling at its personal nature.

Janine had got her this. The good-natured Irish girl was the first person to tease Mary in a friendly way since her team had been killed. Janine had chosen the apron as her way to do it because Mary was always bringing home-baked bread into the surgery – because she, Janine, knew Mary  _liked_  baking bread. Before Mary herself had known, Janine Hawkins knew that Mary Morstan enjoyed baking.

 _I'm Mary Morstan and I like to bake bread_.

It was the type of statement she used to make while getting in character for an undercover role:  _I'm Enid Brown and I'm a former army brat, current teacher's aide. I'm Sue Morris and I'm a divorced secretary who devours trashy romance novels on the commuter train. I'm Danielle Smythe and I'm an accounts manager who likes rice pudding and beadwork._

She stared wonderingly down at the floury apron.

_I'm Mary Morstan and I enjoy baking bread._

Her heart began to pound as she realized this time her mantra was different – because this time it was true.

For the first time, she understood that  _Mary Morstan_  was no longer an identity she had adopted…she actually  _thought_  of herself as Mary Morstan.

The name –  _Mary Morstan_  – was not the one she had been given at birth, any more than the others were – but it  _felt_  real. The statement –  _I enjoy baking bread_  – was a  _true_  statement: she  _did_  enjoy baking bread. She had learned because she had  _wanted_  to, not because she had needed to flesh out a character. Then, having learned, she had kept on for no other reason than because she  _enjoyed_  it.

She was startled out of her reverie when Sadie, puzzled at her long stillness, suddenly jumped down from the windowsill and wound her furry body around Mary's ankles with a questioning mew. Mary blinked down at her as though she had never seen her before.

 _I love cats,_ she suddenly realized.

Another statement of truth: since she adopted Sadie she noticed cats while she was out and about. She would pause to admire or stroke them now, where once she would have passed them by without thought.

She looked up and caught sight of her own reflection in the tiny mirror on the wall by the door. The reflection was not a ghost or shape-shifter, but a  _real_  woman: a woman with her blonde hair held out of her eyes with purple plastic grips, wearing the nerdy glasses she'd put on after taking her contact lenses out minutes after arriving home.

 _That's Mary._ I'm _Mary. It's not a cover. It's Mary Morstan, a real person who loves cats and baking bread, and she's…_ me _!_

Looking down at the apron again, she knew there was another reason it had pleased her when she opened it – a reason apart from its usefulness and humor, and now she knew what it was: it was  _red_. She suddenly remembered something from her childhood, something she had long forgotten, but which was still true: red was her favorite color.

Sitting down suddenly on one of the wooden kitchen chairs, a bit faint from having discovered three self-truths in rapid succession, she swept a startled Sadie into her arms and, clutching the little cat to her breast, pressed her face into her black-and-white fur.

"I'm Mary Morstan. I love cats. I enjoy baking bread. Red is my favorite color," she whispered.

Happy, humble tears squeezed out from behind her eyelids and wet Sadie's fur.

* * *

Until Sadie came to live with her, Mary had regarded her little flat as a place to  _stay_  rather than a  _home_.

If she had ever had a real home, she did not remember it. An only child orphaned young, she had, after her beloved grandmothers death, gone through a series of increasingly brutal foster homes until she ended up with the shadowy guardian who had seen her as a tool, someone with the ability to be used and shaped into the assassin she became.

By the age of twenty-five she was already so hardened and cynical, and had seen so much of the ugliness of human nature, that she more than half believed the concepts of  _home_ ,  _family_  and  _love_  were fairy tales people told themselves in an attempt to infuse the pointlessness of life with meaning. She certainly never would have believed that the presence of a common shorthair cat and a new hobby could transform her shabby little flat into a place she thought of as  _home_.

In the weeks after her epiphany she went a bit mad buying up things for the flat: framed wall prints featuring quaint bakeries and loaves of bread, cheerful throw pillows with pictures of cats embroidered on them, and a bright red duvet for her bed. She also purchased a lovely, stylish red winter coat that she found on sale – a completely frivolous purchase vastly different than the plain, sensible, unremarkable colors she usually favored.

In time she no longer looked forward to "going back to the flat" after work, but to "going home."

She was discovering herself, and the journey was wondrous.

* * *

She had been working with John Watson for three months when, on a whim, she decided to bring the sad, weary-looking man a loaf of her classic white bread to take home with him.

He looked at her when he thanked her, of course, and she had the sense that he was truly  _seeing_  her for the first time. She was happy to think he was seeing her true self.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my Sherlockian sisters who took a look at this for me before I posted it – your feedback was invaluable!


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